I sit, still as breath held tight,
waiting—not for anyone,
but for him.
A certain someone,
a shadow yet to take form,
his face a mystery etched in dreams.
The wait—
eternal,
endless,
a clock with no hands.
What does he look like?
I do not know,
but still, I wait.
I sit, still as breath held tight,
waiting—not for anyone,
but for him.
A certain someone,
a shadow yet to take form,
his face a mystery etched in dreams.
The wait—
eternal,
endless,
a clock with no hands.
What does he look like?
I do not know,
but still, I wait.